Listowel Connection

This blog is a personal take on Listowel, Co. Kerry. I am writing for anyone anywhere with a Listowel connection but especially for sons and daughters of Listowel who find themselves far from home. Contact me at listowelconnection@gmail.com

Tag: Breeda Ahern

A Runner, a Baker and a Poem

By

On February 15, 2024

In Listowel, Personal, Poem

Lower William Street in February 2024

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Jerry Kiernan to be Honoured

Image and text from Tralee Marathon on Facebook

This year’s Tralee 10K (14th Sept) will honour the great Jerry Kiernan, every participant will receive a commemorative Jerry Kiernan medal. Jerry was born in Listowel. At the 1984 LA Olympics Jerry finished 9th in the Marathon he also won the Dublin Marathon in 1982 and 1992.

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A Family Milestone

I have no sister and only one sister-in-law, so Breeda is an important part of the Ahern Cogan family. Here are the Cogan cousins at Breeda’s big birthday recently.

Me and my children on our night out

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A Poem to Ponder

If you didn’t get the roses, the chocolates, the champagne or even a card yesterday, listen to this from U A Fanthorpe.

Atlas

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

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Dating a Postbox

I photographed this postbox in Ballincollig and my Ballincollig based daughter found the era of this particular logo on the An Post website

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A Fact

Last month’s statistics to assure you that you are in good company

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A Heroine, A Horse and a Hen

By

On September 8, 2023

In Duagh, Listowel, Poem

Áras an Phiarsaigh

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Dublin Kerry Honours

There I am at Women in Media in Ballybunion in 2019. On my right is Duagh native, Katie Hannon who is now being honoured by the Kerry association in Dublin. She is to be their Kerry Person on the Year 2023.

Photo: Radio Kerry

These two national treasures, Ambrose O’Donovan and Tim Moynihan, the voices that bring GAA matches to Kerry people all over the world, are also to be honoured. Their match day commentaries are the stuff of legend. They are to be dubbed Laochra Chiarraí (Kerry Heroes).

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A Local Spat

in the letters page in 1901

THE LISTOWEL CONCERT—MR JOHN J FOLEY’S LAMENT.

Listowel, 27th March 1901.

Dear Sir,

In your last issue Mr John J Foley takes exception to the remarks made in my notice of the concert recently held in Listowel, in so far as his “comic” recitation “Thady Kelly’s Hen,” was concerned. It is only natural that Mr Foley should endeavour to prove that the item, so far from being objectionable, was entitled to the honour of a National anthem. If I were in his position it is more than probable I would also try to justify myself in the eyes of the public. Placed as I am, I am sure Mr Foley will have no objection to my defending my criticism, particularly as it was written in a spirit which commends itself to himself. Whether he does or not, I intend doing so, and if he regards my remarks in this and in future letters unpleasant he has no one to blame but himself.

I at once join issue! with Mr Foley on the question as to whether “Thady Kelly’s Hen” is an Irish poem of true racy humour, without any savour of the stage-Irishman or of the English music hall,” or a miserable, drivelling , idiotic caricature of the National character. It is a matter of indifference to me whether he rendered the item in Tralee or Timbuctoo without evoking hostile criticism. I am aware that there are some sterling Irishmen in Tralee, but at the same time I am not ignorant of the fact that it contains its due proportion of shoneens. The question at issue is not whether “Thady Kelly’s Hen’ was hall-marked in Tralee or elsewhere, but whether it should or should not be recited before a self-respecting Irish audience.

Now, let us see what the recitation was about. Thady Kelly, as impersonated by Mr Foley, was a besotted ignoramus who never drank porther until he was dhry.” ” While giving the recitation Mr Foley was continually scratching his head in the most silly fashion, under the delusion evidently that he was doing something particularly clever. This is the manner in which the Irishman is usually caricatured. He is represented as a drunken, improvident, “omadhaun,’ who is tolerated on account of the “bulls” he perpetrates. Mr Foley cut the most ridiculous figure he could assume as he murdered the English language in a style never heard in this country. I have no objection to the wholesale massacre of the English, language, but I have a decided objection to have my countrymen held up to ridicule. A sillier, more disgusting and humiliating performance, I never witnessed, than this so-called comic recitation, and Mr. Foley would be well advised if he never again attempted to perpetrate an atrocity which cannot fail to detract from his reputation.

Mr Foley tries to make a point out of my statement, that the people who applauded his recitation did not appear to grasp its insulting significance. I reiterate that statement, and the best proof that they did not grasp it is furnished by the fact that he was not hissed off the stage.

Mr Foley also makes some mild insinuation about “fanatics.” I do not think it is necessary to waste time dealing with the observation, particularly when I take into account the fact that Mr. Foley was not in the most amiable mood when his letter was being written, and that, under the circumstances an ebullition of feeling was only to be expected. Besides as a journalist, I am not over thin skinned, and I do not certainly expect Mr Foley to be over fastidious in his choice of epithets. I have some other observations to make, but will reserve them for my next letter. In the meantime let me express the hope that when Mr Foley comes to Listowel again, he will not be accompanied by “Thady Kelly’s Hen.”

I am, faithfully, YOUR CORRESPONDENT .

( I looked online but couldn’t find the “poem” anywhere)

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When you Meet Someone Deep in Grief

“Slip off your shoes
and set them by the door

Enter barefoot,
this darkened chapel

hollowed by loss,
hallowed by sorrow.

its grey stone walls
and floor

You, congregation
of one

Are here to listen,
not to sing.

Kneel in the back pew,
make no sound

Let the candles
speak.”

By Patricia Mckernon Runkle

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Home is Where the Horses are

This fellow, affectionately known as Johnny, loves to come to the fence for a nuzzle.

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Fact

Here is the answer to the horse related question you didn’t ask.

Why is a horse’s height measured in hands?

The term “hand” is traditionally used to measure the height of horses because it was originally the standard unit of measurement during the Middle Ages. One “hand” is equal to 4 inches, which is the approximate span between a human’s thumb and outstretched fingers.

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Sunshine in Listowel, June 2023

By

On June 21, 2023

In Listowel

In Listowel Town Square in June 2023

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A Few more from Writers’ Week 2023

Saturday June 3 2023

Keepers of the flame, Jimmy Hickey and Jonathan Kelliher are continuing work that was very close to Bryan MacMahon’s heart. MacMahon realised the importance of collecting, recording and documenting our traditional arts. Jonathan and Jimmy are engaged in a Siamsa Tire legacy project, videoing and recording all the old dance steps, preserving them for future generations.

I read online a criticism of this year’s Writers’ Week, saying that it was more like a fleadh than a literary festival. If any of that was my doing, I make no apologies.

Lisa Egan from Kanturk Arts Festival with friends Lil MacSweeney and Breeda Ahern.

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A Return to Ballykinlar

This is Fr. Brendan O’Connor. On a recent trip to Downpatrick to present a copy of his father’s Breastplate of St. Patrick to the St. Patrick Centre there, Fr. Brendan took the opportunity to visit the visitor centre at the internment camp where his father and many Kerry republican activists spent some time during The War of Independence.

Dr. Michael O’Connor of Listowel, grandfather of Fr. Brendan, was the camp medical officer.

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Where there’s a will, there’s a way

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The Owens of Ballyhorgan, Bibiana Foran and A Wireless Museum

By

On August 20, 2019

In Uncategorized

Victorian Post box




This victorian post box in beautiful condition is in the railway station in Thurles. Isn’t it so much nicer than our modern rusting functional boxes?

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Harriet Owen …A History


This is Harriet Owen who has family roots in Lixnaw with Paul Kennelly at a recent family reunion and celebration in Sheahan’s Cottage in Finuge.


Here in a nutshell is Harriet’s family connection to North Kerry

Harriet Owen

In 1750 William Owen (Miller) came from Wales to Rathdowney with his wife, Rebecca and three children. These were Rowland who married Isabella Scissons, They had no children, Robert married Sarah Hely and they had 8 children and Rebecca Owen.

The 7thchild of Robert and Sarah was John Hely Owen (1793-1870). He married Frances Smith in 1827. They had 6 children.

Henry Amyrald Smith Owe, son of John and Frances married Maria Frances gentleman in 1874. They lived in Ballyhorgan, Lixnaw. In 1860 Maria’s father  was instrumental in bringing the first bank to Listowel, The National Bank. Until then the nearest bank was in Limerick. Henry and Maria had 2 sons, John Hely Owen and Henry George Owen.

John Hely Owen (1877- 1952) married Lurline Ellis (known as Kitty) of Glenashone near Abbeyfeale. Her father, Richard Whateley Ellis was singer with  Carl Rosa Opera Company. The Ellis’ can trace their lineage back to Thomas Ellis of Co. Monaghan in the time of James the second. John Hely and Kitty lived at Ballyhorgan in the house known as The Cottage which had been built by old Goodman Gentleman as a dower house. They later moved to Glenashrone, formerly an Ellis house. When this house was burned during the civil war in 1922, the family moved back to Ballyhorgan. They had 5 children. The eldest, Henry Robert Owen sold the house and farm at Ballyhorgan in 1952.

Henry George Owen (1879-1955) married Olive Margaret Jane Eva Eager in 1910. When he married he moved to Aghatrohis, Bedford near Listowel. His wife Olive was the daughter of Major Oliver Stokes Eager, an army surgeon who served in the Ashanti War of 1873/74. The Eagwers were an old Kerry family The first Irish Eager , Robert was granted land in Queen’s County in the reign of Charles the First. His son, Alexander sold it and settled at Ballymalis, Co Kerry in 1667. The Stokes family had also lived in Kerry for many generations, being descended from The Knights of Kerry.

John Hely Owen and Frances Smith Owen’s granddaughter Frances Ayres married Sir Thomas Myles in 1888. He was a distinguished Dublin surgeon. As surgeon on duty, he attended Lord Cavendish and Mr. Burke in the Phoenix Park. He was an active supporter of Charles Steward Parnell’s Protestant Home Rule party. He owned a yacht, Cholah. In 1914 he was recruited along with Erskine Childers and Conor O’Brien to help in the importation of guns for the Irish Volunteers. Childers landed his part of the consignment from The Asgard at Howth on July 26 1914. A week later Myes’s cargo which consisted of 600 Mauser and 20,000 rounds of ammunition was landed by the Cholah in Kilcoole, Co. Wicklow. From 1900 to 1902 he was President of The Royal College of Surgeons of Ireland and was knighted on completion of his term of office. He was honorary surgeon in Ireland to King George V and during World War 1 he was consulting surgeon to HM Forces in Ireland. For this he was made a C.B.

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Who was this lady?



I’m only a little bit wiser as to who this lady was and I have found no-one yet to tell me what the os in her name is all about. Could it be Oide Scoile? Was she a teacher?

Bibiana was a member of the Board of Guardians. They were originally in charge of the workhouse but their roles expanded to include all issues relating to Health and Welfare and it is here that this lady came into her own.

Bibiana from Ballyahill was the wife of a local well -to -do merchant, Jeremiah Foran. She was a friend of Lady Aberdeen and she was very supportive of this lady’s Health Train initiative. This was like a travelling clinic that went round the country advising on women’s health.

Bibiana also initiated school meals and she backed the purchase of a field close to the town for the purpose of putting up a sanatorium.

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Listowel Vintage Wireless Museum


Eddie Moylan, collector, restorer, curator, owner and guide at Listowel Vintage Wireless Museum is a Corkman. He has made his home in Listowel and he fits right in with this town’s great respect for artefacts from a bygone era. No town deserves Heritage Town status more than Listowel.

In his privately owned museum, Eddie has collected a mind blowing array of wireless, gramaphone and broadcasting memorabilia. Eddie is often visited by radio enthusiasts and people with a love for the old sounds and the old voices. He very kindly gave my visitors a tour recently and they were mightily impressed.


Breeda used to work in the post office and she remembered well the old radio licence.

John B.’s Headstone, Summer Visitors and Cyril Kelly on being a pupil of The Master

By

On July 31, 2019

In Uncategorized

Chapel at Teampall Bán, Listowel

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There are so Many Lovely Songs to Sing



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Summer Visitors


Whenever I have visitors I make sure they don’t leave without visiting the Garden of Europe.

My boyeens are not boyeens any more. They were back in Listowel with their parents last weekend. They were on their way to Coláiste Bhréanainn in Ballybunion.

Breeda Ahern and Sheila Crowley also made the trip over the border from Co. Cork.

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A Trip to the Library

Recently I have been writing a lot about the Carnegie Library and it put Cyril Kelly in mind of trips there in his youth.

Here is a charming essay in Cyril’s uniquely  evocative style recalling a charismatic teacher;

CARNEGIE LIBRARY     Cyril Kelly

This was the man who led us, both literally and metaphorically, from the classroom every day. This was The Master, our Pied Piper, who was forever bugling a beguiling tune, a tune sparkling with grace notes of the imagination. He’d have us on the white steed behind Niamh, her golden fleece romping in our faces. Transformed by his telling we had mutated into forty spellbound Oisíns. Knockanore was disappearing in our wake. The briny tang of the ocean was in our nostrils, bidding us to keep a westward course, forbidding us to glance back at our broken hearted father, Fionn. We were heading for the land of eternal youth, Tír na nÓg.

On the very next antidotal day, we’d be traipsing after him, into the graveyard beside the school. The narrow paths, with no beginning and no end criss-crossed the place like some zoomorphic motif. We were on a mission to see who would be the first to spot a headstone which was decorated with a Celtic design. The diligent boys leading the line were in danger of overtaking the laggards at the tail who were hissing that, in the dark recesses of the slightly open tomb, they had seen, staring back at them, a yella skull. 

But, on very special days, we crossed the road to the Carnegie Library. Master McMahon told us that it was the most magical building in the whole town. Even the whole world, if it came to that. He told us that we were so lucky because Andrew Carnegie, the richest man on earth, had bought all of these books for us. We were amazed because none of us knew Andrew and we felt sure that he didn’t know any of us. As a matter of fact, not one of us knew anyone who bought books, either for us or for anyone else. Master McMahon said that the Librarian, Maisie Gleeson, was minding the books for Carnegie and, especially for the boys in 3rdclass.

On our first day in the library, we all had to line up on tippy-toes at Maisie’s desk to scratch our names with nervous N-nibs on green cards. Maisie eyed us all over her spectacles, welcoming each one of us ominously by name, telling us that she knew our mothers and woe-be-tide anyone who didn’t behave themselves, particularly any boy who did not take good care of Andrew’s books.

If you have a book, boys, Master McMahon’s voice was echoing around us. If you have a book, boys, you have an exciting friend.

Drumming his fingers along a shelf, humming to himself, he flicked one of the books from its place, tumbling it into his arms. Turning towards us, he held it like a trophy in the air. 

The Clue of The Twisted Candle. Nancy Drew, boys. She’s a beauty. Blonde, like Niamh Cinn Óir. Solves exciting mysteries for her father.

The Master took his time to scan our expectant faces.

Here, Mickey, proffering the book to Mikey Looby whose father was a detective. Why don’t you sit down there at that table. Read the first few chapters. See what Nancy Drew is up to this time.

Turning to the shelves again, The Master threw back over his shoulder; Sure if I know anything, Mikey, you’ll probably solve the mystery before she does. Mikey, clasping the book in his arms, stumbled to the nearest chair, thirty nine pairs of envious eyes fastened to him. Sure it’s in the blood, Mikey boy. It’s in the blood.

Selecting another book, The Master faced us once more. This time he called on Dan Driscoll.

I saw you driving your father’s pony and cart to the fair last week. Three of the loveliest pink plump bonavs you had. And what a fine looking pony Dan Driscoll has, boys.

Well, here in my hand I’m holding Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey. This man is a fantastic story teller. He’ll take you to the frontier lands of America. I promise that you’ll see and smell the rolling plains of Wyoming more clearly than if you were in the Plaza cinema down the street. You’ll ride with cowboys, you’ll hear the neighing not of ponies but of palominos. You’ll meet deadly gunmen, boys, noble Red Indians. And on the headstones in Boothill, boys, you won’t find any Celtic designs. 

And there, in the vastness of the library, The Master’s youthful tenor voice startled the silence; Take me back to the Black Hills/ The Black Hills of Dakota/ To the beautiful Indian country that I love. By the time he was finished he was besieged by a posse of outstretched hands and beseeching cries of Sir! Sir! Sir! Every one of us was demented to get our paws on that book, any book.

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Archeloogy Open Day at the new Bypass


A nice little crowd came along yesterday to see what was to see at the site of the old cottage at Curraghatoosane.




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Resurfacing Courthouse Road


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